Share it

Monday, January 28, 2013

Best Cellar

This post is about a poem I
wrote. Wait! Come back here! Sit down. Pay attention. Yes: POETRY. Stop
squirming. You might actually like this.

There was a time when I was
a serious poet. But my poems were anything BUT serious.You might say I was heavily
into light verse. I was in High School at the time, when the two most
descriptive adjectives to describe me were "Earnest" and "Goon".

Now, relax. Unclench those
white knuckles. I am NOT about to foist my high school poems on you.
Shoulders....down..........goooood......breathe....... its okay.......

Writing light verse all day
and night (instead of doing, you know, HOMEWORK), was a great laboratory for a
budding writer. It taught me the supreme importance of Rhythm in writing. I
haven't written much poetry since Best Cellar - almost 20 years ago - but my prose is nonetheless
very musical. Read my posts aloud and you can almost dance to 'em.

Anyway, in High School I wrote about 4,000
lines of stuff that I thought was good enough to keep. (My criteria for 'good' at
the time was that the cute girl in front of me in Algebra liked 'em. {And therein
we can glimpse the causal forces of almost every single line of poetry ever
written, and indeed the majority of all art ever created.})

I still have most of this
angst-ridden dreck, and it all resides in "The Trunk", where it will
live forever, never get thrown out, and also never see the light of day.

I still dabble in poetry
occasionally. Witness my haiku about our Roomba:

Pic courtesy of some site on the 'Net. Um, sorry.

With tinny fanfare

I happily clean your floors

Please empty my ass.

In college I moved on to
short stories, and I even wrote a bowel rupturing embarrassment of a novel - which
also lives out its lonely existence in the depths of the The Trunk. Don't even
ask.

And then in 1993 my washing
machine broke down. Well, it was the landlord's machine, and it stopped
cleaning our clothes and just entertained itself with pumping out sudsy water
all over our livingroom floor. I called the Property Management Service and
they laughed and laughed and laughed and said it would "be awhile"
until they could get us a new machine or fix the old one. ("Be
awhile" eventually equalled 3 months.)

1982, age 17. Transition
from cars to girls,

judging by the bulletinboard. Generic

"preppie" shirt, courtesy of MayCo. Portion of

Tutankhamun poster behind me. Tools of the

trade in situ: Thesaurus, Almond Roca, Liquid

Paper and "Highway to Hell" on cassette.

Also, that tendon-crushing manual
typewriter.

This meant.......(dramatic
music flourish).....the LAUNDROMAT. And here is where people divide into two
camps:

Camp #2 says "Oh HELL no!" and moves back
in with its parents so they can use their
washer and dryer.

Me, I'm such a freak loop I
said "Yaaaay! Adventure! Periodic forced relocation to a strange, alien
environment full of colorful characers and exotic smells! I believe I shall use this
unique opportunity to craft an Epic Saga!"

The setting and basic plot of
"Best Cellar" come from a dream I had. (Regular visitors to
Angus-land know of my propensity for cinematic, O. Henry type dreams.) Each
week I would add a stanza or two and then put my papers in with my laundry
stuff and not look at it again until the next week.

My 1983 Senior High School Photo from Alta Loma High School in Rancho Cucamonga. Underneath it says "Goon".

The poem ended at about the
same time as the washer being fixed. And to tell the truth, I was kinda sad
when I had to give up my evenings in the loud and smelly laundromat; I was
seriously getting INTO this epic.

Best Cellar is written in a
complex AABBBA rhyme scheme. I think the closest established froo-froo
title for this type of poem is a clogyrnach, except my lines are all the same
number of syllables (more or less). I did achieve a few internal rhymes, but I
wasn’t aiming for anything specific there - strictly bonus points.

And yes kids, clogyrnach
is really a word. If you paused at that in the last paragraph, had your tongue
stick to the roof of your mouth in confusion, threw up your mental hands, and
said to yourself “Why that might as well be Welsh!” you are 100% right. It’s
not misspelled – It’s Welsh.

Anyhoo, here is the
adventure of Annabel Mercy Monroe. Remember it's 1993, so forgive the reference
to floppy discs.

Try reading it aloud!

Best Cellar

1985, age 20.

(A curmudgeon's fable)

I can't be sure but it just might be

That off in 2193

This little tale may come to pass

The future's as cloudy as the past

And even though you didn't ask

I'll spin a yarn for thee.

Can you see a museum close by a brook?

The stream is clear but the building's been shook

By some quakes, some abuse, some budget cuts

It stays open except those years when its shut

Those who know of it say: "stuck in a rut."

For this is a shrine to books.

"Books?" say the locals, chatting on the 'net

"With pages, right?" for we all forget

What it was like for those before

Before the 'nets changed the fact into lore

And pages to text and covers? What for?

The software seemed to be set.

So no one came out to the crumbly tomb

Yet its funding was never snipped from the loom

Of the budget - enough to light up the cases

Thousands of books, all averting their faces

Plus a caretaker whose job these days is

1986, Great Peace March.

To open and close up the gloom

The caretaker was Annabel Mercy Monroe

Who signed with the National Service Bureau

To pay off her college, now over and done

She thought a museum job would be fun

But so far no guys, no friends, no one!

And no computer of course, don't you know.

She cleaned display glass and made funny faces

Looked at the titles and thought of the places

She'd rather be, the things she's rather be doing

Rather than dusting and loafing and endless vacuuming

And the basement: the setting and (ick!) the removing

Of the mouse traps beneath the old cases.

So one stormy day in '93

While Annabel napped 'neath a paperback tree

Two lightning strikes struck at opposite ends

Of the town and the grid on which the city depends

Burned out like a bulb with no chance to mend

Blankness fell over the city.

The screens dried up and they shriveled away

(The 'net full of holes one is tempted to say)

Dinners uncooked, showers got cold

The young felt younger - the old, more old

Across the land nothing bought or sold

It seemed the credits would roll on the world that day.

Annabel woke with a shiver of fright

Nothing civil in the museum that night

She stepped from the paperback tree - looked around

Lights? Heat? Muzak? not to be found

The small stream outside was the only sound

And the full moon above the only light

Outside, 'cross the fields, the city was black

So she ran cross the brook to the caretakers shack

Dug out the fireplace - it was really that old

1988, Age 24.

Found some matches that were sprouting some mold

And recalling the legends and tales she'd been told

Got a small fire going - and then settled back.

The next week was massive, civic de-evolving

A mixture of looting and group problem solving

The grid repair would take quite awhile

A harvest was gathered from the fields growing wild

People adapted to this trendy lifestyle

But entertainment was not so quickly resolving.

One night Annabel heard noise on the grounds

She took the stew off the fire (the cans she had found)

And looked out the window to see folks on the plain

So she ran 'cross the stream to the museum again

She unlocked the door, hey give 'em free rein

And they all entered - without a sound.

Annabel lighted candles so all could see

She reached in her cloak and hoisted her keys

For she finally connected why these people were there

Not just to check, no, not just to stare

But to read and share the books under her care

She opened the cases with deviant glee.

Memories trace titles along ancient covers

Fingers reach out, withdraw, and then hover

Eyes look around, smile, and then dash!

Spines open up, the books slip out and splash

Like urns full of ash, like disposable trash

Cheap paper degrades they discover.

All stares at Annabel Mercy Monroe

Like she was the cause of this dark magic show

She stepped back, and then back, blind from the glares

Unable to say that it just wasn't fair

They surged through the dust and she ran down the stairs

To the basement that waited below.

1996, Age 31.

And in the mass of dark confusion and fear

Before the candles were brought - before thought reappeared

An old case was toppled, books jumped for their lives

They bounced and they splayed but most made it alive

For when pulp papers' dust the rag-weave survives

It lives and it thrives, year after year.

Well the light made it down and most books were claimed

Annabel wrote down each title and name

And accepted apoligies (and made a few dates)

They cleaned up the place - had a party so great

They read poems aloud and kept her up late

And by morn her museum had brought her some fame.

Eventually the power was put back on line

But the books still keep her busy full time

Her job now is far from utilitarian

Not a caretaker for an idea antiquarian

She's upgraded (with pay) to city librarian

And that seems to suit her just fine.

Let us leave the museum - the library tonight

And cross the clear stream in the bright moonlight

And peek in the window of the librarians space

The fire still glows and lights up her face

Annabel Mercy Monroe marks her place

With a floppy disk, which seems only right.

Angus McMahan

angusmcmahan@gmail.com

@AngusMcMahan

P.S. "Freak Loop": I first was going to use 'Fruit
Loop' there, and then in the rewrite I thought the word 'Freak' might fit
better. But I forgot to delete the 'loop' part. I just discovered my typo now
and I have decided, what the hell, I'll leave it like that.

And thus we peer into the complex inner fever sanctum of the
Writer At Work......

1 comment:

Among the many ways we try to protect our homes and keep it safe, one way is to keep the garage door repair Rancho Cucamonga safe. Yes, most of us often do not consider the safety of the garage and are casual about it.

Your 'umble Author

About Angus

angusmcmahan@gmail.com

(831) 431-0636

Angus is a carbon-based, bipedal, ape-descended life form who has evolved his thumb-laden hands into two specialties: Writing stuff, and whapping on things in a rhythmical manner.

The rest of his hairy arms are now good at swimming. His legs have been running and pedaling bicycles for decades. And his enormous cranium seems to be engaged mostly in getting sunburned, playing video games, and yelling at the Giants on his TV.